


Together Again

by MARVELous_mayhem



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Artist Steve Rogers, Bucky Barnes Has PTSD, Bucky Barnes Needs a Hug, Captain America: The First Avenger, M/M, Protective Steve Rogers, Steve Rogers Has PTSD, Stucky - Freeform, Stucky Barnes, steve rogers fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-22
Updated: 2019-07-22
Packaged: 2020-07-10 14:02:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,327
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19906882
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MARVELous_mayhem/pseuds/MARVELous_mayhem
Summary: Steve and Bucky are finally reunited, after Captain America rescues the 107th from Schmidt's factory. Steve loses himself in his sketchbook to cope with everything that's happened since joining the Army, and soon finds that his art can help his best friend, too.





	1. Chapter 1

Steve’s sketchbook was right where he’d left it- wedged underneath a corner of his mattress, peeking out from beneath a tightly creased hospital corner. It was waiting for him- dog eared pages, cover worn soft and supple, pencil cracking the spine where he’d left it marking his previous drawing. 

The last one he’d had time for was that monkey. He’d drawn other things, of course- doodled plenty on mess hall napkin corners and the backs of war bonds brochures. But the last time he’d actually had time to draw, really sit down and make art- had been backstage that rainy afternoon with Peggy- the second time in his life when someone had looked at the (no longer skinny) kid from Brooklyn and decided he deserved a chance. 

So much had changed between his previous drawing and the current one. When he’d drawn that monkey, all Steve had to his name was a catchy theme song and a chorus of dancing girls. Now the name Captain America meant something-  
To the newspapers, it meant hero. To Colonel Phillips, it meant potential. To Peggy, it meant she hadn’t been wrong to place her faith (and her job…and her reputation…and her life…) in Steve’s hands. To him, Captain America meant a lot of things, but only one of the was important- Bucky. 

They’d marched back into camp several hours ago, and Steve had only now managed to excuse himself from the rounds of beer and slaps on the back from his comrades, and the Colonel’s lengthy preliminary debriefing with other military intelligence officers, Peggy, and Stark. 

All Steve wanted was his bunk and at least eight hours of shut-eye, though at the rate his mind was racing he’d be lucky to snag more than a handful. He’d gotten awful good at sleeping on planes rumbling over top the European theater, but a cat nap at 30,000 feet didn’t exactly count as rest, and the events of the past 24 hours were weighing his limbs down to the point where he felt thick and heavy and stupid. 

However tired his body may have been, Steve’s mind was the opposite- a hyperactive movie reel, replaying the factory explosions and the whir of HYDRA weapons every time his thoughts wandered or his eyes closed. Despite the ruckus the rest of the platoon was making- whoops and cheers and loud music blasted through staticky radio speakers, Steve still heard echoing screams that made his ears ring, metal creaking as Schmidt’s creations came crashing down around him. 

His throat still tightened, choking on hot, acidic air, as images of Bucky on the i-beam assaulted his brain from the inside out. 

That awful crack as the rivets gave way. 

The look he’d flashed Steve when he turned around. 

The shaking legs that somehow managed to push him into the air, the trembling arms that hauled him up and over the railing on the other side of the collapsed catwalk-

“Go! Get out of here!” 

“Not without you!” 

“Steve.” 

Run, Buck. Don’t wait for me. 

“Steve.” 

You’re the only reason I made anything of myself. You’re the reason people chose to believe in me. Don’t wait for me.

“Steve!” 

Steve snapped his eyes open and cleared his throat to cover up his heaving chest and quick, panting breaths. He released his hold on his pencil, having managed to shove a tiny splinter into the sided of his index finger without noticing. 

“You all right, Steve?” Bucky stood at the entrance to the tent, one hand on the canvas flap and the other rubbing at a trail of dried blood he’d yet to wipe from his ear. 

“Yeah. Yeah, I’m okay.” 

“You sure?” He glanced down at Steve’s finger, which was now oozing blood around a shard of graphite. “Because you’re damn finger’s bleeding and you look like hell.”

“Language,” Steve muttered. He sucked the blood off his finger and plucked out the splinter with his front teeth. “Seriously, Buck, I’m fine.” 

His friend held up two hands in defeat and took a seat next to Steve on the bunk. “I’m glad you still have this thing.” He picked up the sketchbook and thumbed through its pages-  
The alley where Steve had broken his first nose.  
The alley where Steve had received his first broken nose.  
A cartoon recruitment office, guarded by a bug-eyed soldier who looked suspiciously like Phillips.  
James Barnes, in his dress uniform, hat tucked under one arm, other raised in salute. It was more than a portrait, though- normal ones didn’t show this much emotion, this much life in a single set of eyes, this much detail in the corner of someone’s mouth or the way shadows fell on sergeant’s chevrons. 

“You coulda gone to art school in another life, Steve. And been damn good at it, too.” 

Steve took his sketchbook back from his friend and flipped to a fresh page. “Don’t have the patience to sit around and draw fruit still lifes all day; you know that. Besides, these are just doodles.” 

Bucky scoffed. “You don’t give yourself nearly enough credit there, Captain America.” 

Steve waved him off and began sketching loose, light guidelines on the page- one for the horizon and another small dot to mark the center of the image. Bucky sat with him into the night as the HYDRA factory came to life in graphite- a tank creeping into view from the right side and the 107th storming the fence, front and center. The blades on Schmidt’s escape pod blurred to life on the roof, and two dead soldiers sprawled just beyond the foreground- one Army, one HYDRA.

“I’m sorry I couldn’t come for you sooner, Buck.” Steve broke the silence when his lantern dimmed, and he was forced to root around in his footlocker for a spare torch. “I’m sorry he turned you into another one of his experiments.” 

Bucky shook his head and ran hands through hair still speckled with ash from earlier. Even from his spot across the room Steve could smell the soot and sweat on him. “You came for me when nobody else would. You’ve got nothing to be sorry for.” 

“People died because of me today.” 

“A lot more people would have died if it hadn’t been for you.” 

“How many do you think were trapped in that building when it blew, huh? How many people do you think I left in there?” 

“Steve, you didn’t leave anybody! You saved half of the 107th. I’m sorry, but you can’t expect to save everyone.” Bucky sighed and gently tugged Steve’s sketchbook from his grip.

He closed the cover and tossed in the open footlocker. “Leave the past in the past, yeah? Go to bed.” 

“I’m not gonna be able to sleep. Everything’s too loud.” Steve didn’t mean the party outside the mess hall. 

“You gotta at least give it a shot. I’ll sleep on the floor; it’ll be just like old times. For me, Steve.” Bucky stood up and pulled back the wool blanket on Steve’s cot. “Want me to fluff your pillow?” 

Steve cracked a smile and flung the pillowcase at his friend. “Shut up and go get your sleeping bag, Buck.” 

***

Things finally quieted down a few hours later- the radio had been shut off and remaining stragglers finally crashed into bed. Steve was pretty sure he was the only one left awake in the entire camp, most everyone exhausted either from the day’s events, or the epic party celebrating the day’s events. Or both. 

Bucky’s gentle snores emanated from his spot stretched out on the hard dirt floor, one arm tucked behind his head, the other slung under Steve’s bed. Steve was wide awake, sketching continuous contour drawings in the dark- soldiers scrunched in tanks, Stark’s various shield designs, that pug-like expression the Colonel pulled whenever he got angry. He can’t see the paper but he doesn’t need to, letting muscle memory guide the pencil. The serum had made drastic improvements to his memory, though, so exercises like this one were almost pointless from an artistic perspective though. As a distraction, however, they were priceless. 

Somehow, drawing bloody soldiers and seeing them on paper was so much easier than seeing full-color illustrations in his mind. Shading blood with graphite was easy; it was far too red in real life. 

Steve’s sketchbook made dealing so much easier. If all these images could end up on paper instead of in his brain he could make room for things that mattered- like how to cut off all HYDRA’s heads instead of having flashbacks about all the new ones taking the place of one’s he hadn’t yet managed to slay. 

He wasn’t going to sleep that night. 

***

Hours later, Steve’s hand had cramped around the pencil, graphite tip worn to a dull nub. He crept across the tent and through its canvas flaps to crouch in front of his rucksack, abandoned outside next to his boots. He felt through pockets and rummaged around in pouches, shoving aside the shapes of familiar objects in the dark- helmet, spare compass, a slightly damp pack of field rations he hoped for digestion’s sake he’d never need to consume. 

After a minute or so of pushing aside remnants of that day’s mission, his fingers closed on a worn pocketknife in the bottom of his rucksack. He flipped open the blade with practiced hand and whittled his pencil a new point. He wish he’d had his pencil sharpener, but he’d left the bulk of his art supplies at home in Brooklyn when he came overseas.  
Steve tucked the pencil behind his ear and pushed open the tents flaps again, shuffling in and loosely tying them together behind him. 

“Buck?” 

Bucky was still on the floor, still deep asleep, though it was no longer peaceful. His friend was thrashing in his sleeping bag, tearing at the canvas and at his chest. 

“Bucky! Wake up!” Steve hissed in his ear. 

No response. 

Steve teared up and placed a hand- gentle, but firm- on Bucky’s chest. “Come on, Buck. You’re safe, you’re here with me.” 

Bucky’s eyes shot open, and before Steve even had a chance to flinch out of the way, his friend had twisted his wrist, flung Steve’s hand off him, and body slammed the super soldier into the side of the bunk. 

Bucky scrambled backwards, panting hard, eyes wide and forehead glistening with sweat even in the low light. He scrubbed his face with both hands and combed through his hair with shaking fingers. “Jesus Christ, Steve.” 

“I’m sorry; I shoulda known better.” Steve untangled himself from his spot on the floor and rubbed his shin- the one that had nearly dented the steel bedframe. 

“God, did I- I’m so sorry.” 

“Don’t be, I’m the one who woke you up in what might be the worst way possible.” 

Bucky shrugged. 

“Seriously, don’t worry about it. I won’t even have a bruise in a few hours.” Steve sighed and tossed aside his now broken pencil. “Can I-?” He gestured to an empty spot of floor next to his friend. Bucky nodded, and Steve swept aside the balled-up remnants of sleeping bag. “You always said you thought I liked getting hit.” Steve smiled. 

“Not when I’m the one doing the hitting.” 

“I was only kidding, Buck.” He brushed aside the failed attempt at a joke. “Bad dream?” 

“That’s an understatement.” His friend was still breathing hard, and Steve could practically feel the anxiety radiating from him, charging the air inside the tent with an almost electric humidity. Bucky pulled away from Steve and shrugged his T-shirt over his head, tossing it across the room to land on top of the discarded sleeping bag. He scratched hard at his chest, coughing hard a few times and pounding the center of his sternum. 

“You okay?” Bucky was shiny with feverish sweat, all the more evident now that he was shirtless. 

“Dreamt Schmidt had me strapped down again. He kept me like that for a long time- days, at least- before you go there. I got to play guinea pig.” 

“He’s never going to get to you again; I won’t let him. I promise.” 

Bucky shook his head.

Steve took his friend’s jaw in two gentle hands and turned his head so he was looking at Bucky’s eyes- the ones that had calmed him through many a nightmare and asthma attack and feverish spell as a kid. It was only fair that he return the favor now. “I promise. And I don’t make those lightly.” 

“I know, Steve. I know.” Bucky whispered, and leaned his sweaty forehead until it was resting on Steve’s. His body sagged, exhausted (Steve was sure) from both the nightmare and whatever hell he’d been through with the rest of the 107th. Steve tensed and braced his friend’s weight, gathering him up in arms that had never been big or strong enough to do so pre-serum. Steve smiled. Finally, he was able to do a little bit of the caring himself, instead of always being the needy one. 

“We’re together again, Bucky. We’re going to be okay.”


	2. Chapter 2

“I used to hold you like this all the time when you were sick.” 

Steve had abandoned his spot on the bunk and joined Bucky on the floor, draping an extra sheet over top of them both. He had one arm wrapped around his friend’s middle, and the other folded up over his shoulder, running his fingers through Bucky’s sweaty hair. 

“Well, I have a significantly stronger immune system now, so hopefully you won’t need to anymore.” 

“I disagree with that statement.” 

“I can’t get sick, Buck.” 

“I know. But that doesn’t mean we can’t - never mind.” Steve blushed and buried his head in Bucky’s shoulder. His arm slipped over his friend’s front and Bucky caught his wrist with a sharp snap of his own. “Don’t, Steve. Chest- too tight. Can’t breathe with twenty pounds of super soldier on top of it.” 

“Sorry.” Steve returned his hand to Bucky’s back and traced circles over clammy skin, fingers brushing over freckles and a tiny mole at the nape of his neck like tiny, perfect Braille dots. 

Bucky let out another shaky breath. “God- everything reminds me of Schmidt and that goddamned factory. The way camp smells, the way certain people feel, screaming, just, it’s all so real and-”

“Buck, stop.” Steve shrugged his way out from under the sheet and rolled back towards the bunk. He snatched his sketchbook from its spot at the foot of the bed and propped himself up against the bedframe. “Come here.” 

Steve held out an arm and pulled Bucky close to him, his still-shirtless half tense against Steve’s Army green undershirt. “Draw.” 

“What?” 

“Do something with your hands. Trust me, it helps.” Steve could practically feel his friend’s eye roll in the near darkness. He flipped on a torch and held it above the pages. “I spent half my nights these days in this book. Trust me, it’s much easier to see portraits of dead soldiers than it is to see your own memories.” 

“Do you see a lot of them?” 

“Dead soldiers? Or memories?” 

“Aren’t they one and the same?” 

Steve shrugged. “I spend a lot of time thinking about all the people who died while Senator Brandt had me playing stunt monkey. A hell of a lot more of the 107th could have walked back with us today if I’d found the courage to stand up and do something other than parade around with a herd of dancing girls.” 

“Steve, you know you can’t control what happened. You were an experiment- a complete wildcard, a gamble. Mind you, a gamble that more than paid off.” 

“Erskine wanted more for me.” 

“Then prove everyone wrong. Everyone who never thought to give Brooklyn here a chance- prove them wrong.” 

“I don’t know that I have it in me. Sure, I have the serum in me, but what if that’s all?” 

Bucky sighed and blended a line of graphite with the pad of his pinkie finger. “Did Schmidt poison or you or something back there? Because we both know that’s complete nonsense, and you may need to have your head examined if you honestly believe otherwise.”

Steve shrugged. Bucky set down the sketchbook and turned to face his friend. He took his shoulders and forced Steve to look at him. “I always believed in the skinny kid from Brooklyn. Schmidt gave you an incredible gift- the chance to prove to the world what I’ve known for years.” 

Steve looked up at his friend and offered a weak smile. “I’m trying, Buck.” 

“I know. We all are. That’s why soldiers don’t sleep; we all try so goddamned hard.” 

They sat silent for a while- Bucky sketching lightly, Steve trying to remember to breathe, both in reaction to Bucky’s words and how close they were. 

“I thought I was going to die.” 

Steve said nothing. 

“I don’t just mean, ‘Oh, this is a dangerous situation.’ I thought I wouldn’t wake up tomorrow. Next thing I know, your eyes are leaning over me and I thought I’d died already.” Pencil scratching on paper. “Do you know what that feels like? To really believe, with every fiber of your being, that these are your last minutes on Earth?” 

“But they weren’t,” Steve said, and pulled him closer. “I promise. You won’t have to feel like that for a long, long time. And then next time you do, I promise I’ll be there.”

“Steve, it’s 1942. Don’t make me a promise you can’t keep.” 

“It won’t be 1942 forever, Buck. And I have no intention of making you a promise I can’t keep.” Steve took a shaky breathe and pressed his lips against Bucky’s warm, soft skin. “I’ve got you back now and I’m not letting go.” 

Bucky tensed beneath him and Steve’s heart rate tripled-   
He’d ruined everything.   
He’d only just gotten his best friend back he’d already ruined things between them.   
He was going to lose Bucky again because he got needy at 3 a.m. 

But then Bucky turned around, ran a hand along Steve’s stubbly jaw, and kissed him- warm and sweet and rough all at the same time. Their breath mixed and chins scratched against one another. Steve tasted salt, and then realized the salt was tears- running hot and ugly down his cheeks.

Bucky wiped them away with the side of his thumb and pressed his forehead against Steve’s. “Can we do this, Steve? Can we? Because if we can’t, don’t lead me on.” 

“We can. I don’t know if people will let us, but we’re going to do it anyway. I care about you too much to let you go again.” Breathe, Steve. “I didn’t think I’d ever get the chance to do this. When Rhodes told me it was the 107th that went missing, I thought I’d lost my last chance.” 

“You didn’t. You saved our chance, and became an American hero at the same time. I don’t know what else I could possibly ask for. I’m so proud of you.” 

Steve’s heart pounded, but it was a pleasant tachycardia this time. Bucky was here. They were both here, and alive, and together. 

“What did you draw?” Steve shone the torch at the sketchbook, though gray morning creeping in from the edges of the tent were almost enough to make out the sketch’s heavy outline. It was the two of them, arms tangled round one another on the floor. Sleeping. Peacefully, this time, which is the only reason Steve could tell the page apart from reality. The two of them drawn with simple, dark shapes, but it was a beautiful likeness- taking a beautiful moment and translating it onto paper. 

“I mean, usually I draw my flashbacks when I can’t sleep, but I suppose this will work, too.” 

Bucky smiled and kissed Steve on the temple. “Come on, we’ve got a debriefing at 0700.”


End file.
